Paddy at Home ("Chez Paddy")

by baron de E. Mandat-Grancey

CHAPTER VII.

SEEKING AN AUTHENTIC CASE OF BOYCOTTING—LINE-FISHING ON THE SHANNON—THE CONSTITUTIONAL—ENGLISH EDUCATION—THE IRISH FARMERS—SUNDAY AT CASTLE-CONNELL—DEPARTURE FOR SHAUNGANEEN—MR. THOMPSON—THE CORK DEFENCE UNION—CLOSE BOYCOTTING—PRETTY MISS M’CARTHY AND HER LEG OF MUTTON—ENSILAGE IN THE OPEN AIR—THE RETURN FROM CAHIRMEE—THE CONNECTION BETWEEN THE ENGLISH LADIES’ VIRTUE AND THE BREEDING OF HALF THOROUGHBREDS—THE ORIGIN OF HARICOT MUTTON—CHRISTMAS NIGHT AT SHAUNGANEEN, 1880.

July 12th.—The study of the newspapers and everything that is said around me shows me that I have at present only seen Ireland in the most exceptional light. At Kenmare a fortunate combination of circumstances has resulted in the two parties having as their chiefs very intelligent men, both very popular in the two camps, and both using every effort to calm the public feelings. The situation is so strained, that in spite of these favourable conditions, there are some drawbacks: but suppose a less prudent agent or landlord, or even a president of the Land League who was anxious to attain notoriety, was there, as elsewhere, they would certainly be in the same state that I am told is only too common in this unhappy country.

I should be much disappointed if I were forced to quit Ireland without being able to judge for myself what the life of an unfortunate man severely boycotted, as they say here, is like. The hospitable traditions of the Emerald Isle are always in full force. I had therefore scarcely expressed this wish before my amiable hosts endeavoured to gratify it. It was not difficult to find a boycotted person. There are enough of them to form a regiment, and every one to whom I explain my difficulty says at once: “I know exactly what you want.” They then proceed to enumerate with the greatest complacency all the claims which their man can advance to be called “severely boycotted.”

In this way I received so many invitations, that, naturally being unable to accept them all, I was involved in a serious amount of work before I could ascertain which was the most authentic case. I proceeded to eliminate them. For instance, one amiable landlord, who has not received one penny from his farms for two or three years, about a fortnight ago received as compensation three shots in his hat in one evening, whilst he was driving his dog-cart along the road. This at first appeared to be a serious claim; but I soon changed my impression. Mr. X—— was actually fired at, but the shot was intended for one of his neighbours. His servant never doubted it for an instant. When he heard the shot whistling past his ears he turned round, and furiously apostrophising the assassin whom they saw running away across a field, he shouted out—

“You fool, to take his honour for Mr. Z——! Have you no eyes?”

Then, when his first anger had passed, he turned towards his master and amicably admonished him.

“There,” he said, “your honour is wrong! You know that Mr. Z—— has been condemned by the League, and yet you drive out in the dusk with a grey horse as like Mr. Z——’s as two drops of water. It isn’t reasonable. A poor fellow can easily make a mistake!”

And on the next morning Mr. X—— received by post a letter signed “Captain Moonlight,” confirming in every respect his servant’s explanation. The Captain much regretted his agent’s mistake, and congratulated himself on the fortunate want of skill which had prevented an “accident,” which he could never have forgiven himself, ending his letter by advising his correspondent in a friendly way to get rid of his grey horse or to leave it in the stables for some time.

The first duty of a really patriotic traveller is to point out to the merchants of his own country every good thing that may present itself to him. I therefore notify Parisian horse-dealers that for the last fortnight grey horses were sold for next to nothing in this country. But this is a digression, which I hope will be pardoned on account of the sentiment which inspired it. I said then that these explanations appeared to me to diminish the value of Mr. X——’s claim to the title of “severely boycotted;” in my opinion those of Mr. Z—— are superior. But since he hastened to Italy, where he wished to visit some of the museums, and his return still appears to be indefinitely postponed, I am forced to renounce the idea of studying the beauties of boycottage at his house.

At last I discovered the object of my search. Mr. Thompson is one of the principal agents in County Cork; he is unquestionably boycotted, and if only one half of what is reported in the newspapers about him is true, he is quite as “severely” so as any one could wish; for during the last eighteen months it has been necessary to place a garrison of seventy-five men in his house. It has but just been withdrawn, and will probably be replaced. Mr. Thompson, with whom I had been put in communication, immediately and with the greatest kindness wrote to invite me to stay with him, only he begged me not to arrive before Monday. I had therefore three days to spend at Ballinacourty. I was, however, only too pleased with the delay, which allowed me to enjoy Colonel M——’s charming hospitality a little longer, and to see a little of that country life, which differs so much in England from anything of the same kind in France, and which—must I own it?—is so much more agreeable.

This morning I went for a walk alone to see the country and talk at leisure to the peasantry. My first visit is always to the Shannon; through my open windows, I can hear in the night the roaring of its cascades. Its banks are covered with superb trees, and nothing is more charming than a walk there in the morning. It can only be made by passing through private grounds, for from here to Castle Connell the whole country between the high road and the river is occupied by the parks of seven or eight castles or country houses. But in this country the owners seem to invite you to enter their properties. Everywhere you find hurdle fences or gates always standing open.

I own that I was first attracted by the fly-fishing. Amongst us a fisherman is nearly always an elderly man for whom life has ceased to have illusions. He likes solitude, and consoles himself by the society of the gudgeons in place of the mortifications of an existence passed on the stool of a bureau or in the thick atmosphere of a back shop; the fraternity is also recruited by a number of retired officers; there are even some old captains of the line who belong to it, but they are in bad odour with the general inspectors and are never promoted to a superior rank.

English fishermen are very different. That which amongst us is almost regarded as the first halting-place in the progress towards the final softening of the brain, is, on the contrary, amongst our neighbours, considered a brevet of supreme elegance. Angling is one of their most-appreciated sports. A whole literature is devoted to it. When a young cavalry guardsman can announce to his comrades, towards the month of June, that he has obtained three weeks’ leave to go and install himself in a hut in Sweden, on the banks of a stream where he can get some fly-fishing, he becomes the object of secret envy amongst all his less fortunate comrades. If a French novelist made one of his heroes enjoy fly-fishing, you would feel sure that he is a husband, who would be abominably deceived before the third chapter; when an English one wishes to explain the lightning flash that kindled in Miss Kissmequick’s heart an inane love for the lively Irish Major O’Kelshick, he describes him taking three trout in ten minutes before the young heiress! That is quite enough to subjugate her, and not an English girl reads it but she inwardly owns that it would be quite enough for her too!

There is another thing well recognised by all observers really worthy of the name, and this is that amongst the different races of men and animals called to live together in the same country, there are always physically, as well as morally, if not some points of resemblance, at least some phenomena of conformation which indicate that they are made to assist each other. Thus, suppose that Providence had decreed that the race of Perche horses should resemble the Corsican ponies, where would the stout Normandy farmers’ wives, with their rounded forms, have been able to place all that, by the gift of exuberant Nature, they are forced to carry to market, when they are seated pillionwise behind their husbands? It is because they require so much room that the Percheron mares themselves have those beautiful round haunches which have made them so justly celebrated; whilst the small Corsican women whom one sees arrive at the Alata or Boccognano markets are perfectly comfortable on their thin ponies. Providence does all things well!

We must also notice—and it is in order to reach this point that I have allowed myself this digression—we must, I say, notice that this similitude does not only exist in external forms, it is also visible in characters. For instance, an Englishman knows how to imprint his individuality on all that surrounds him, animate as well as inanimate objects. The Englishman is a being whose manners are always solemn and systematic. He is so much the slave of his habits that he carries them with him wherever he may be. Imagine two Englishmen, one at Chimborazo, the other on the Himalayas, and except for the difference of time which results from the difference of longitude, you may be sure that they will both eat the same thing at the same hour. If you offer them at two o’clock the meal they have been accustomed to eat at eight, or at eight the repast they are used to take at two, they will wither you with a glance pregnant with the deepest contempt, and turn their backs upon you. The completeness of these habits constitute what is called respectability.

Well, the fish in this country—it is of Ireland that I am speaking—have contracted these habits. Offer as bait to one of our fish anything extraordinary, and he will swallow it, even if it is not good, simply from love of change, from curiosity. This sentiment in the last century made all our great ladies enjoy going to the porcherons so much to eat the petits plats canailles there. This is why we are such a revolutionary people! The trout and the salmon in the Shannon are not like that. If at eight o’clock you offer them a fly which they adore, but which generally they only eat at noon, instead of being seduced by the novelty, as our French fish would be, instead of allowing themselves to be tempted by the earliness of the season, they would turn round with a whisk of the tail, and you would not see another of them. Your advances, although well meant, shock them, because you have broken the usual rules, and they perceive in your action an attack against their respectability.

The English quite understand these sentiments. This is why, just as Baron Brisse composed a daily menu, to the great assistance of his readers, so they formed albums of artificial flies, which one has only to turn over to see what a trout or salmon who respected himself, should take not only every day of the year, but also every hour of each day. This idea appeared so sublime to me that I bought one of these albums; it cost me five pounds, and its information has never aided me in catching a single French fish.

But the English are more fortunate, or more skilful, than I am. Every morning, at dawn, I see the tenants or owners of fishing wending their way towards the river, consulting their albums. Two men are waiting for them seated in a punt moored to a tree. They begin by a long discussion as to which fly it would be most advisable to offer as the dish of the day. In order to settle this, they carefully examine the flies that are visible on the river. A still more certain means, when it is practicable, is to procure a trout, and to open its stomach to see what it has eaten for its first breakfast. When once their choice is made, they dress four or five hooks; one is fastened to the line, the others are placed round the hat ready for use. I ought to have mentioned that fly-fishing requires a special costume. It seems to me that it is absolutely necessary to wear knickerbockers, and for the complete suit to be of homespun, with yellow or green squares, the same sort of thing that we see the English wear from time to time in the opera amongst us—but not over here!

When these preparations are once ended, the punt is pushed into the midst of the river; the two boatmen, seated at the extremities, keep it still in the current, and their master sets to work. He flourishes his line two or three times in the air, and then with an adroit turn of the rod, he throws the fly up the stream, as far away as possible, holds it on the surface of the water whilst it descends the stream, and then recommences, without growing tired of it, during four or five hours. Every morning I see seven or eight gentlemen devote themselves to this amusement. From time to time their fly catches a hat on its way, either their own or a boatman’s. This is about the only thing I ever saw them catch. When it happens, they pause an instant in order to enable the owner to recover his lost headgear, but this is the only incident which can trouble their Olympian serenity.

These are the lucky ones of this world. They pay 200l. or 300l. per annum, and sometimes more, to obtain the right of enjoying this amusement. They alone can hope to capture a salmon, but allow others to gather up the crumbs from their table. On the bank one sees gentlemen of less importance, whom the others allow to fish for trout. This is the democracy of fly-fishing. Outside all questions of sentiment or prejudices, whichever you like, I do not pity them much, for they appear to me to catch a great deal more than the others.

I am not the only one who contemplates all these beautiful scenes. I also meet on the river banks a good number of people who are taking their constitutionals—that walk for health’s sake which absorbs one-half of every good Englishman’s existence. The “constitutional” is still an institution of the country. I must say a few words about it.

All philosophers agree that the body is a machine given to man for his use. English ideas about the method of employing this machine are very different from our own. A Frenchman, as a rule, is not anxious to make any exceptional demands upon its strength. His great desire is that the machine should work properly and without requiring too much care. If on days when he feels so inclined he can walk twelve or fifteen miles without fatigue; if at the fair at Saint Cloud he can unhook an honourable number with a blow on the Turk’s head, he is perfectly satisfied. And if any one came and said to him, “Place yourself under my directions; I will make you rise early and go to bed early, although you like to rise late and sit up late: I will make you walk quickly six or seven hours a day, after which I will exterminate you with exercises on the dumb-bells; I will prevent your eating when you are hungry and drinking when you are thirsty; but thanks to my rules you will be able to do thirty miles without noticing it; at the next fair at Saint Cloud you will when you play give such a blow to the Turk’s head that the whole machine will be reduced to matchwood, and if you will accept a pair of the running breeches which Mr. Marseille offers for the use of amateurs, you will beat all his pupils in turn, amongst the applause of the idolatrous crowd;” I would bet heavily that ninety-nine Frenchmen out of a hundred would reply to this vile tempter—

“A thousand thanks! But first of all, I have a number of more interesting and amusing things to do than any of those you propose for me. I have only one life, and should be miserable if I used it in so wearisome a fashion. And lastly, if I must tell you the whole truth, it is possible that the prospect you open out to me may be very attractive to certain people, but it leaves me quite indifferent! Allow me, then, to remain as I am!”

An Englishman would probably accept the bargain at once. I was wrong to use the conditional. Two-thirds of the English, at least of those who belong to the upper classes of society, look up to this ideal from their earliest youth. Amongst our neighbours the truest happiness in reality consists in the enjoyment and exercise of physical strength. Incontestably that is the quality that they most appreciate. I have seen many Englishmen, thoroughly exasperated against Mr. Gladstone because of his Radicalism, allow their anger to melt away when they remember that although nearly eighty years old, he can still cut down trees at Hawarden.

A father feels more pride in his son’s talents as a boxer or rower, than in his literary success at Oxford or Cambridge. Amongst us, the newspapers write lengthily about the great competitions, but completely neglect to inform us of the games of prisoner’s base which the young candidates may have previously waged in their respective colleges. In England, the Times gives a short summary of the examinations at the end of the Oxford and Cambridge years; but as soon as the annual boat-race between the two universities draws near, its columns are freely opened to all details respecting it. For three months before the event takes place special reporters are employed to keep the English and colonial populations acquainted with the most minute particulars respecting the rowers’ health. They begin by quoting the men’s weights; the special rules that the trainers impose upon each of them are carefully explained. One fine morning, England learns with consternation that Jones, the stroke of one of the boats, has awakened with a slight headache; but on the morrow a relieved sigh escapes from thirty million breasts on reading the assurance that judicious purging has cured Jones’s headache.

These customs, which seem so strange to us, have certainly their good side. A young Englishman of sixteen or seventeen is intellectually one of the most prodigious dunces in creation. If one is absolutely determined to make him talk, one can induce him easily enough to relate every detail of the fine boxing match between Jack Thompson and Dick Harris, or he will even explain to you, and very clearly, the rules he followed in order to lose five pounds of his weight in one week, and beat Tom Wilkinson racing. This is all you can get from him, and it is very wearisome. But I infinitely prefer the type to that of Chérubin de Beaumarchais, who, nevertheless, never existed, or that of Fanfan Benoîton, who, unfortunately, is only too common amongst us.

The most terrible thing is that in this respect a young Englishman does not improve as he grows older, at least for the first few years. When he is nearly thirty years old, and he has seen and done a good many things, he often becomes interesting. But before that he has an extraordinary lack of conversation. There are several reasons for this. First of all he knows very little, for, in fact, he never learnt anything whilst he was at college. He does not read much: he really only interests himself in questions of sport. More than this, he takes no trouble. A Frenchman always thinks he can please a woman by seeking to be witty in her presence. The efforts he makes with this object may perhaps render him ridiculous, but it is because every one is doing his best that our salons are so agreeable and contain so many pleasant talkers. In England these ideas do not exist. Physical beauty rather than wit secures worldly success for a young man. In France a woman is fairly content not to be witty, but she desires above all to be beautiful; on the contrary, most of the men are indifferent about their appearance, but would be greatly mortified if any one questioned their wit.

In England the position is completely reversed. A fashionable young man, entering a drawing-room, takes no trouble to please the ladies present; he almost seems to say: “You must court and admire me!” On the other hand an Englishwoman is not coquettish in dress. She often flirts à outrance before her marriage, but that is necessary in order to obtain a husband. As soon as she has landed her prize she troubles very little about her appearance. But, in return, her husband is always well dressed, and often spends more on his clothes than she does on hers.

I said that young Englishmen know very little when they leave college. It would be very difficult for them to do otherwise, having given to study only the few hours left from cricket and boating. Most of the well-informed men that one meets have learnt all that they know after they left college. The educational system in this country has then a curious result. Whilst they are paying dearly for classes held by excellent professors, and for the use of the finest libraries in the world, they only learn boating, and it is quite impossible to study seriously, since all the time is passed in recreation. But some higher natures resent this deprivation of work so strongly that they leave college with a profound distaste for idleness, and they succeed in their self-instruction. Perhaps it would be more rational to work seriously during the years at college and to boat afterwards. This is the French system, only we exaggerate it so much that through unremitting study at college many of our young men are apt to dislike work afterwards. The true idea, according to the Romans, would be to have a mens sana in corpore sano. We Frenchmen, particularly in former years, have perhaps done rather too much for the development of the mind and not enough for the body; but really the English have always seemed to me to have gone too far in the opposite direction.

When I had ended my walk by the river-side, I returned across the fields and highway, talking to the peasants whom I met. Really, the more one sees of these fine Irishmen, the more one becomes attached to them. They have only two faults—they are very idle and horribly untruthful. But how witty they are! I am told that the other day an English tourist, a man already elderly, arrived at Castle Connell. He intended passing some weeks here, and on the recommendation of a friend, he had written to the inn to secure a room; he wished for one in the front of the house. He had been promised one, but did not get it. An honourable individual, living by his wits, introduced himself as having fishing rights in the river, and led him, for a consideration, to a certain spot, where he left him, promising him wonderful success. In five minutes he was arrested by a keeper, who threatened him with prosecution. After three or four adventures of the same kind he packed his portmanteau, vowing that he would never visit Ireland again.

At the station, just as he was starting, he was surrounded by four or five beggars.

“You tell me,” said he, “that you are dying of hunger; that too, must be a lie. Since I have been in this country I hear nothing but lies. Look, here are three shillings! I promise them to whoever will tell me the biggest!”

“Ah,” readily answered the most ragged of the band, addressing his neighbour, “here, at least, is a ra-al gintleman!” And he held out his hand, sure of having won the three shillings.

We must not judge this want of veracity too severely: it is the certain result of centuries of oppression, during which untruthfulness was the sole protection of the persecuted against the persecutor. Every race that has passed through the same trials has the same defect, and it is very slowly corrected. If I allude to it, it is because I perceive that the information that one receives in this country must be accepted with some reserve. An Irish peasant, in contrast to our own, is always inclined to speak of his affairs. Only if one holds two conversations with him, leaving a day’s interval between them, one finds that frequently his statements on the second day bear very little resemblance to those he had made on the preceding one. It is therefore difficult to arrive at the truth. Thus, after once visiting all their houses, I considered that the fact that these people were living in misery was conclusively proved.

But perhaps this is not so certain as I fancied. We must distinguish between them. Those who twenty or twenty-five years ago had a fair-sized and not too bad a farm have profited by the rise in the price of meat, and have made money. If they live so miserably it is because it suits them. The proof that until quite recently they were doing well, is, that when they felt inclined to give up their farms they easily found people who gave them relatively considerable sums as the price of their lease. And this often when the landlords had not received one penny of rent for some years. But a farmer’s position could not be as bad as he pretended, since he could find others who were ready to accept it, although it was aggravated by the price of the lease. I, however, believe that an enormous decrease in the number of farms is inevitable here as elsewhere, and here more than elsewhere. The price of meat is lower in all the English ports, particularly the price of medium qualities, through the immense importations of American and Australian meat: this trade is likely to increase prodigiously, for its profits are enormous. But, until the last few years, farmers who had one hundred acres, ought, at least, to have been able to pay their rents very comfortably.

We must therefore distinguish between them. The large farmers, who were able to raise cattle, pretend to be miserable, but are not really in distress. They try to profit by the situation. But the misery is terrible amongst the small farmers, who are much more numerous, since it certainly includes four-fifths of the population. Some years ago there were 300,000 holdings under 5 acres; 250,000 from 5 to 15 acres; 80,000 from 15 to 30; and only 50,000 of more than 30; and, consequently, there were more than 600,000 families who lived on farms of less than 15 acres. The great majority were therefore unable to raise cattle. Now agriculture, which has never been very remunerative in this country, on account of the climate and of the inferior quality of the soil, is absolutely impossible now that to these drawbacks foreign competition is added. The small farm has therefore no future here, as I have already said, but it cannot be repeated too often, because any policy that is not inspired by this fundamental truth, can only result in disaster. Besides, one of the reasons which have made small holdings so successful with us, is the spirit of order, economy, and industry, which so greatly characterises our peasantry. Now, I do not know whether Irishmen are very economical; I rather doubt it; but I am sure that the Irishwomen, at least, are not industrious. If they were they would never allow their own and their children’s clothes to remain in the state we see them in. Every lady tells me that there is scarcely one peasant in ten who knows how to sew. The other day I visited the convent at Kenmare, and I saw there a hundred little girls, whom the Sisters were teaching to make a lace that appeared to me to resemble the lace made at Caen. The nuns owned to me that their pupils had very little inclination for needlework. Neither have they any aptitude for cooking. When I enter a house at meal times I always see three rather dirty dishes on the table. On the first there is a piece of bacon, on the second and the third there are boiled potatoes and cabbages. The whole is as little appetising as possible. It reminds me of the horrible meals in the Far West. With the same materials a Burgundian would make a dish of which the smell alone would revive the dead.

The afternoon was passed in calling upon the neighbours, for I find that there is much sociable visiting in this country. The day before yesterday there was a grand charitable sale of work, which was attended by more than three hundred people. Every day of the week there is a tennis party held somewhere. There I met, dressed in white flannel and in an extraordinary state of perspiration, all the people whom I saw in the morning taking their constitutionals or fly-fishing. At each of these little festivals assemble at least thirty or forty people who live in a radius of about six miles at the outside—and even less, for many of the young men come on foot, carrying their tennis shoes with them. I do not know any province in France, and I do not believe there are any, where it would be possible to organise so many reunions of this kind. The ruin of Ireland through absenteeism!—this thesis so frequently brought forward is surely a legend! In any case, at least in this county, absenteeism is much rarer than is reported and than I had imagined. In the immediate neighbourhood of Ballinacourty there are at least twenty castles and country houses. All but one are inhabited. If this is empty, it is not the owner’s fault; he is dead.

To-day is Sunday. This morning two jaunting cars conducted the master and servants to Castle Connell. Since noon yesterday it rains in torrents. This does not prevent all the peasant women whom we meet on the road, walking to church, being dressed in wonderful costumes. I noticed five or six women, whom I had seen during the week, their hair falling round their faces, bare-footed, scarcely covered with a chemise and a petticoat. To-day they have bonnets with flowers, boots, and some of them silk dresses. The men, without being so brilliant, are relatively well dressed. Apparently it is only the children who do not participate in this general Sunday smartness. I see numbers of them running in the mud, nearly as naked as during the week. But they improve by being seen in the rain. They are washed.

At the entrance to Castle Connell our carriages draw up before the Protestant Church, a pretty little place, where a young English clergyman officiates who has not, like his colleague at Kenmare, joined the Land League. He is therefore not on good terms with the Catholic population. But on the other hand, his parishioners praise him highly.

The neighbouring gentry arrive one after the other. Seeing me remain in the carriage, Lord M—— graciously signed to me to take a seat in his pew; but I reply to this proposal by a horrified gesture which makes them all laugh heartily, and I go with all the coachmen and footmen to the Catholic church.

When I reach it a compact crowd is hurrying in. Under the porch I notice a group of men surrounding a table on which a tray is placed. One of them addresses me roughly as I pass:

“Don’t you mean to subscribe?”

“Subscribe! What for?”

“Take care, Jim!” interrupted one of his companions, “it’s the Frenchman staying with the Colonel.”

“Ah! you are French. God bless the French! Now, sir, won’t you kindly subscribe something for the election expenses of those who defend the good cause [the Parliamentary Fund]?”

I placed a few shillings on the tray. I am sure that there were already 8l. or 10l. there. What a nice thing it is to be a candidate in this country! Alas! it is not like this at home!

I hope that my offering will please Mr. Harrington. In any case, it has not injured me in the opinion of the inhabitants of Castle Connell, for one of them at once led me to the front, and showered civilities upon me all through the mass.

This evening I said good-bye to my kind hosts, for I must start early in order to meet Mr. Thompson at Limerick, where he undertakes to show me Irish life under a new aspect. It appears that up to now I have only seen the Land Leaguers in rose colour. He will take me home with him, where he promises to show me the best they can do in this way. I am, therefore, on my way to a boycotted country!

July 13th.—I quite understand that, strictly speaking, the Irish complain of having too many policemen. However, seeing what is taking place amongst them, it appears as though there were more reason to increase their number than to withdraw those who are already there. But they ought, at least, to feel proud of those whom the English Government gives them. For whatever may be the connection that exists with them; whether they protect or arrest you, it is always preferable to have dealings with a clean, well-dressed policeman than with a dirty one. The lists of the Irish constabulary force are so numerous that this corps is perhaps more like an army than a police force. But I have never seen an army so well dressed. When I see some of its men passing, and I mentally compare them with those we see at home, I cannot help owning that the comparison is very painful to my national pride. Why do they not improve such a sorry state of things? Why, for instance, is it necessary, no matter what the rulers are—and yet, God knows, we change them often enough—why, I repeat, must the breeches of our army be always so badly made, whilst the trousers of all these constables look as though they had come from some great tailors’ workshops? The other day, I was sufficiently curious to ask the officer with whom I dined at Kenmare, how they managed so as to make it always quite unnecessary to address to these men the reproaches good St. Eloi so freely bestowed on his august master. He explained to me—I am speaking of the officer, not of St. Eloi—that the clothes are all kept in the shops, not made as they are with us, but simply cut out. In this state they are given to the men. Then, thanks to an allowance, given on purpose, there is a tailor in each locality, who undertakes to fit them and sew them together. The same system also prevails in the navy. Would it then be quite impossible to attempt an analogous combination amongst us? Whatever the results might be, they could not be worse than those which sadden our eyes and disgrace one half of our army—the half nearest the ground.

Mr. Thompson had appointed to meet me this morning in the Limerick station, from which we were to start together for his home at Shaunganeen, but as he was coming from the south, and I from Castle Connell, our trains did not fit in, and I had to wait nearly three-quarters of an hour. What can be done in a railway station, unless one dreams? might have said M. de la Fontaine, had stations existed in his time. And therefore I allowed myself to make all the reflections which I have just written down—reflections suggested to me by the sight of twenty or twenty-five constables, who, after forming on the quay under a sergeant’s orders, took their seats four by four on the benches of jaunting cars, which were waiting for them before the door. They then drove off towards the country.

“There, a few more poor devils will sleep homeless to-night!” said one of the railway officials, standing by my side, looking at them with an unsympathetic air.

And it is probable that they are going to aid in an eviction. The men are in marching dress, knapsack on the back, and rifle on the shoulder. I must mention that the cars waiting for them are painted red, and driven by officials belonging to the Government. Formerly, when a squad had to be transferred rapidly from one point to another, the Government hired carriages, but now it has been obliged for some years to have its own, for there was not one owner who dared provide them for its use.

My meditation was suddenly interrupted.

“We must hurry,” said Mr. Thompson, who had just arrived; “our train is ready, we have but just time to take our places.”

Two minutes later we were rolling towards Shaunganeen. Mr. Thompson is, like Mr. Trench my host at Kenmare, one of the best known agents in the south of Ireland. During the two hours that the journey lasted he told me his story, and related through what train of unlucky circumstances he could now boast of being at the present time one of the most boycotted men in all Ireland. You must first know that Mr. Thompson is not, like most of his brethren, content to be only a receiver of rents. Instead of letting to the farmers all the land, the management of which has been confided to him, he retains a sufficiently large portion in his own hands, reserving it for the landlord. This arrangement would be quite unsuccessful amongst us. However, they say that certain Irish landlords have derived benefit from its adoption. In any case, it has one advantage. The landlords are less at the mercy of a coalition of farmers, for the latter, knowing that the bailiff or agent disposes of all the necessities of cultivation, always dread that their lands may be taken from them if they ask for too much reduction—a dread that may be salutary, but which they would not have by the other arrangement.

Mr. Thompson’s case proves that this weapon has not great efficacy in actual circumstances. One of his farmers was greatly in arrear; he did not pay, and showed no intention of paying. His land was contiguous to some of the land cultivated by Mr. Thompson. The latter thought that it would be a good opportunity of uniting them; he therefore asked the farmer to come and see him, and proposed to take them back—adding that if he were willing to consent to this arrangement, they would give him a receipt for the rent in arrear. He curtly refused, and said that he would refer the matter to the Land League. He did so, for, two or three days later, Mr. Thompson received a notice that if the man were sent away, the farm would be boycotted. Usually the boycotting of a farm inflicts great loss upon its landlord because he cannot find a tenant. But since Mr. Thompson had no intention of seeking one, for he intended cultivating the land himself, he thought it useless to take any notice of this threat. The necessary formalities were completed; at the termination of the legal delay he secured the assistance of a good number of soldiers and constables, and the eviction took place, without more stones and mud than usual being thrown at the representatives of authority.

Mr. Thompson felt quite proud of the victory he fancied he had gained over the League. But he soon discovered that his triumph was less complete than he had at first imagined. One day, in going round the farm, he noticed that the hay was ready to cut. The same evening he told four men, who usually worked for him, to take their scythes the next morning and commence mowing. The men curtly refused, saying that the League had placarded in the village a prohibition against working on the land, and they dared not disobey. They were immediately dismissed. Only it was equally necessary to send away all the other farm-labourers, for none of them were more docile. He endeavoured to procure substitutes from the neighbouring villages by offering two or three times the usual wages; it was impossible to find a single one.

A short time before these events some of the victims of the League had recognised that one cause of their weakness was their isolation. They agreed that the best means of resistance would be to borrow some of its methods of procedure. Similia, similibus! Resistance, although impossible to one man, could be made efficacious if they organised themselves—all the more so, because many of the people who now submitted would have resisted had they been sure of being supported. They therefore formed, under the name of the Cork Defence Union, an association, which was intended to unite all opponents of the League, and to paralyse by every possible means its most offensive measure, i.e. boycotting. The most important persons in the county, the Earl of Bandon and Viscount Doneraile, were named president and vice-president. Numerous adherents joined from all sides, and soon the Anti-league had command of sufficient resources to enter upon a campaign. In order to bring those to reason whom the Leaguers of the neighbourhood found refractory, they had adopted two very efficacious methods. They forbade the blacksmiths to shoe the horses, and the owners of machines to thresh the harvest of those whom they had interdicted. The association imported machines and portable forges, which, protected by a strong escort of constables and managed by picked men, scoured the country and worked in spite of all attempts to break them. For the first time they succeeded in counteracting the League.

Mr. Thompson was one of the first adherents and even one of the organisers of the Cork Defence Union. He, therefore, at once thought of applying to it for help in his embarrassment. The Cork Defence Union was equal to the circumstances. In two days it supplied twelve determined mowers from England, who arrived escorted by a picket of cavalry and a company of infantry. This haymaking was useful for the instruction of the troops. The rules of the service when in campaign were strictly observed. Every morning the cavalry reconnoitred the country, ready to fall back upon the infantry, who were drawn up in battle array on the edge of the field, and during the night advanced posts guarded every haystack. Thanks to these wise precautions, and also to the fact that there was very little rain, the hay was gathered in at the end of four days. But when making up his accounts Mr. Thompson found with some bitterness that agriculture is really not remunerative when it is carried on under military protection.

However, he found a little consolation in the fact that, questionable though his own triumph might be, the partisans of the Land League were greatly troubled by it. In place of material results, he had secured a moral victory. He saw the proof of this result in the great number of meetings that immediately took place in the neighbourhood, meetings attended by two or three thousand people. The parish priest of Shaunganeen who was president of the local Land League, made a speech, and expressed himself with the greatest violence. He declared in allusion to Mr. Thompson that his name “smelt of blood,” and he made his auditors pass the most energetic resolutions. But here I must make a few observations; boycotting has become so common in Ireland, that gradually a kind of jurisprudence has been introduced into its application. Thus, there is a first degree of boycotting, which is not applied directly to persons. A refractory landlord finds his produce or his property interdicted. He can neither let the one nor sell the other. Usually, he hastens to yield, apologises, pays a fine, and things remain as they were. But if he still resists, the measures taken against him begin to assume a more personal character. He can no longer buy anything that he may require, for whoever sells anything to him, or renders him any service, is at once excommunicated. Until then the League takes the whole responsibility of its actions. Its sentences are often placarded. In every case they are announced in the party newspapers. It is not until the series of mutilations of cattle, arson, and attempts at murder, which form the third degree of boycotting, commences, that it always disclaims all responsibility. Now, until the memorable day on which Mr. Thompson gathered in his hay, thanks to the skilful manœuvres of a little “army corps,” only the first degree of boycotting had been applied to him, and the situation might have been indefinitely prolonged without any perceptible aggravation. But all was spoilt, because on the one hand, the League would not submit to a defeat, and above all, Mr. Thompson was not content to triumph quietly. He at once wrote a letter, which was published in all the newspapers, in which, after thanking the Union, he related the events that had taken place, announced the success of his proceeding, and urged all those who were in the same position to have recourse to the same means. He did not know the wasps’ nest he was throwing himself into, but he soon learnt. The letter appeared on a Saturday. The following day about two o’clock, he saw a well-meaning friend arrive. He had walked the three miles that separated the house from the town, in order to warn him that the League were holding a meeting, and he had great reason to believe that he was the subject of it. Mr. Thompson, still elated by his success, would not believe it. But the same evening at seven o’clock, the constabulary sergeant sent a man to him, warning him to take precautions, and particularly to be careful to remain indoors, for serious things might happen during the night. Mr. Thompson, who is unmarried, lived at that time with one of his sisters, a young girl of fifteen; two servants, who had been in his service for a long time and upon whom he thought he could rely, slept in the house. They had an abundance of arms, and, what was more important, the doors and window shutters had been lined with sheet iron during the Fenian insurrection. They hastened to barricade the house, and every one prepared to go to bed, when towards nine o’clock knocking was heard at the kitchen door. Armed to the teeth, Mr. Thompson went to it at once.

“Who is there?” said he.

“Open, open quickly, for the love of God, your honour,” replied a stifled voice.

“Who are you? I warn you that I shall fire.”

“I am the butcher’s servant, your honour. They came and told Mr. McCarthy that from to-day he is forbidden to supply your honour with anything at all. Mr. McCarthy wished that your honour should at least have time to get straight. He therefore sends two legs of mutton, which I have brought, but I was much afraid I should never reach the house! Two men are already standing as sentinels at the gate. I saw them arrive, and I crept through a gap in the hedge. But for the love of God, your honour, take your mutton quickly and let me go. I shall go back by the river, walking in the water, and I hope they won’t see me leave the park. But then, if they should see me, I can say that I left the master’s house before he received the order from the League.”

Mr. Thompson took the mutton and shut the door, feeling very uneasy at the turn affairs were taking. However, the night passed quietly. The following morning, well armed, he went out to reconnoitre; on the side of the road, in front of his gate, he saw two peasants standing, leaning against a tree; whilst he looked at them he saw two others arrive from the town. They exchanged a few words with the first two and then took their places. They were day sentinels who relieved those who had watched through the night.

He went towards the outhouses. The yard men had already left some time before, but the household had up till then continued in his service. Every one had disappeared during the night. The two old servants who had slept in the house were the only ones left, and they were quite drunk already, but swore that they were ready to die for their good master, who found himself obliged to feed his horses, for they were not in a state to do it.

“That is how my boycotting began,” said Mr. Thompson as he ended his recital; “and now it has lasted six years!” he added philosophically. “But here we are!”

The train had just stopped before a small isolated station in the middle of some fields, for the town is between two and three miles from the station. Shaunganeen, like Castle Connell, has had its days of splendour. It is, however, one of the few localities in this country which has not been the capital of a kingdom, but a saint with a very complicated name settled here towards the seventh century, and attracted, says history, by the fertility of the soil and the favourable dispositions of the inhabitants, he founded an abbey which soon became celebrated. Only a few rather fine ruins remain of the monastery, and the city, which, until 1787 was represented in Parliament by two members, is now only a large and rather miserable town. The station yard presented an interesting spectacle. In the centre an old coachman was standing holding with one hand a very handsome cob harnessed to a dog-cart, and with the other a grey donkey harnessed to a small cart. The first of these vehicles was intended for us, the second for our luggage. Half a dozen urchins in wonderful rags were standing round contemplating the group, with their hands in their pockets; and there, calm and serious, a gigantic constable stood on the quay, a switch in one hand, benevolently standing to be admired by the population.

The old servant greeted us with such a lugubrious gesture of the head, and his whole appearance denoted such extreme dejection, that I saw Mr. Thompson turn visibly paler.

“Good heavens, Tim!” he exclaimed, hastening towards him, “has anything fresh happened?”

“Ah, your honour! Has anything happened? Yes, something has happened!”

“But what?”

“Your honour, when leaving, told Miss Thompson to write to Dublin to order beer and whisky, but she has forgotten to do it. The day before yesterday she sent me to Tom Sweeney, the tavern-keeper, to get some. He refused to give it! And since yesterday there has not been a drop of whisky in this house!”

“This is very serious,” said Mr. Thompson, by whose side I was already installed in the dog-cart, “but I dreaded something worse. Tim, you can follow us with the luggage.”

“Monsieur,” he continued, laughing, “you were kind enough to accept the hospitality of an unfortunately boycotted household; but you see, you will have to share some privations. However, I can promise you some bread for this evening. There is not a baker, within a round of ten leagues, who will supply us with bread, but we have a kind neighbour who is willing from time to time to give us some of his provisions. He brings it himself across the park by night. We dare not ask him very often because he risks being shot on every journey; but we shall have some to-day. On the other hand, you will not have any meat; it comes to us from Dublin, about forty miles away, and I have not had time to write for it. Usually we do without it, because it has to be fetched from the station, for no messenger will bring it to us, and our household is so much reduced that we avoid errands as much as possible. We therefore content ourselves with biscuits, preserves, and the produce of the poultry yard.”

“But, dear sir,” I replied, “believe me, I am too glad of your kind invitation not to be very grateful for it, even if you could only give me a potato and a glass of water. But let me speak freely to you. I quite admit that the butcher, for instance, makes different excuses in order to avoid supplying your cook with meat, but if you went yourself, and, with the money in your hand, you asked him to sell you a leg or a loin of mutton, it appears to me very difficult to believe that he would dare to refuse to give it to you.”

“Will you make the experiment with me?”

“I dare not ask you to do so, but really nothing would give me greater pleasure.”

We had just reached the market-place, which was surrounded with shops. At the door of one amongst them, hung neck downwards two magnificent half oxen; evidently this was the butcher’s. On the pavement stood a group of beggars and vagabonds of all ages, looking with famished eyes at all the good things displayed in front of the shop on a marble table. Mr. Thompson drove across to that side.

“Boys,” said he, stopping his horse five or six steps away from the group, “which of you will earn sixpence by holding my horse?”

An unlucky urchin of eight or ten years old at once jumped at the reins. But he had not time to seize them before a vigorous kick reached him in that part of his body which was not facing the horse. At the same time a threatening voice addressed five or six words to him in Irish; he seemed quite able to comprehend the second warning, for he at once returned to the pavement, energetically rubbing the place where he had received the first. No one else stirred.

“You see, it begins well,” said Mr. Thompson in a low voice.

I was becoming deeply interested. A cart stood there unharnessed. We descended from the carriage, fastened our horse to its wheel, and entered the shop.

Quite at the back of it, to the right behind the counter, we saw a very pretty girl of seventeen or eighteen, very elegant, with small curls on her forehead, her well-fitting black bodice showing off her already fully-formed figure to great advantage, a red ribbon tied like a dog’s collar round her neck; on the whole showing a very pretty specimen of Irish brunettes.

“Good morning,” said Mr. Thompson politely. “I did not know that Shaunganeen had the happiness of possessing such a pretty butcher; I have never had the pleasure of seeing you before. Have you been here long?”

The young lady was evidently delighted. She smiled upon us both in the most engaging way.

“Oh, sir,” she replied, “my father, Mr. McCarthy, only took me from the convent three days ago; my mother is unwell, and I am therefore taking charge of the shop.”

“It was a very good idea of Mr. McCarthy’s! Any one would come here only to see you! Tell me, you have some fine legs of mutton there. Will you sell me one?”

“Why, of course, sir, they are there to be sold! Here, take this one, I am sure it is very tender.”

“Oh! the moment you recommend it I will take it at once.” I was triumphant. Mr. Thompson looked much astonished.

“Well, Miss McCarthy,” he continued, to hide his surprise, “you will send it home to me before this evening, if you please.”

“Certainly, sir! Will you give me your name, please, sir?”

“What! don’t you know me?”

“No, sir; I have only just left the convent.”

“Ah, very well. I am Mr. Thompson.”

“Oh, you are Mr. Thompson of —— Lodge?”

“Yes, I am Mr. Thompson of —— Lodge.”

The poor girl, red as a peony, looked with a terrified air at the fine leg of mutton she kept turning in her hands, as though it were already on the spit, to give herself courage.

“The truth is, sir,” she began, almost in tears, “I cannot send it to you, I made a mistake, I forgot that it is already sold!”

“Very well,” said Mr. Thompson, “I understand,” and he immediately left the shop.

I relate the scene word for word as it happened. I could only declare myself vanquished. Decidedly the accounts I have heard are not exaggerated. However, Mr. Thompson declares that, at all events, so far as he is concerned, things are improving a little. At first he could not get his horses shod unless the Government sent him a portable forge from the artillery. Afterwards he discovered a farrier living at L——, several miles away. I asked myself what the shoes of horses, which had to go many miles before they reached a forge, ought to be made of? Under the circumstances, I would rather have had them without shoes. But a few weeks ago another farrier, who lives only nine or ten miles away, sent him word that he would shoe them provided the horses came to him at night.

“And therefore,” he continued, “Tim’s story rather surprises me, for several times lately they have consented to supply beer for the house. Tim says that it was refused to him to-day. Something new must have happened.”

At this moment we passed an individual adorned with long whiskers and a moustache, who, on seeing us, immediately looked the other way, with much affectation.

“Oh,” said Mr. Thompson, “I understand it all now. I have the honour of introducing you to our member of Parliament, the Honourable Mr. X——, beer and spirit merchant, and naturally an outrageous Land Leaguer. Since he attained this honour, one of his nephews keeps his shop. The nephew is rather indifferent, we can manage him. But it appears as though the uncle has come to see his constituents, he wishes to get a little popularity at my expense, and poor Tim must go without his whisky.”

—— Lodge, which we reached in a few minutes, is a pretty house situated in the middle of a fair-sized park, crossed by a river. Under the windows of the house it forms a large piece of water covered with water lilies, and shaded by superb trees, on which a great number of herons were nesting, making an incredible noise. Two young girls of sixteen and seventeen stopped their game of lawn-tennis when they saw us, and ran to greet their brother, with whom they, were passing their holidays. Naturally, we at once told them about the incident at the butcher’s. The young ladies severely criticised pretty Miss McCarthy’s conduct. But, in reality, in spite of their genuine hatred for Mr. Parnell, it appeared to me that boycottage was not one of the least attractions of their sojourn here. It entails a Swiss Family Robinson kind of life which is full of amusing incidents.

My kind host hastened to do the honours of —— Lodge. He first showed me his farm. Since he can now only employ the men provided for him by the Cork Union he has naturally been forced to alter his method of culture in order to reduce the number of hands as much as possible. This gave him the idea of trying the ensilage, which has been so much used amongst us for many years, but which is still quite unknown in this part of Ireland. Only he had to struggle against a difficulty peculiar to the country. The sub-soil is so damp that at a depth of five or six feet water is found everywhere. He was therefore obliged to undertake considerable works before he could render his pits water-tight. He had some idea of trying ensilage above the soil. I should like to say a few words about this arrangement, which appeared to me extremely curious.

On the ground, side by side, were laid fifteen or twenty oak joists, furnished at each end with a screw ring, to which an iron pulley is attached. The hay is packed on this floor whilst it is still damp, just as it comes from the meadow. When the pile is twenty foot high they fix the end of a long steel cord to one of the extremities of the first beam, the cord passes across the stack into the pulley at the other extremity, returns to that of the second beam, and so on across the stack. In our navy we call this a passeresse (a brail). When the whole stack is thus supported they apply a wheel purchase or a tourniquet to the end of the chain. The cord sliding through the pulleys produces so much compression that the height of the stack diminishes by one-half. This pressure, which is about 200 lbs. to the square foot, so completely prevents the entrance of any air to the interior, that fermentation is produced in exactly the same way as when the hay is in a pit. The external surface is sacrificed, but by plunging the hand in the interior, we find that below the crust, which is only from six to eight inches in thickness, the quality of the ensilage is quite as good as that of the pits. It seems that the whole apparatus only costs 18l. I am quite determined to offer one to the first of my farmers who asks me to rebuild his barn.

After lunch Mr. Thompson again harnessed his dog-cart in order to show me the neighbourhood. It appears that we are in the most fertile part of Ireland. And in fact the land is very superior to any other that I have seen at present. However, even here, agriculture has been unremunerative for a long time. And therefore all the landowners are endeavouring to restrict it as much as possible in order to increase the cattle breeding, which is the only thing now likely to produce good results. But to do this it is necessary to reduce the number of farms, and this exasperates the population; here, in fact, as elsewhere, fathers are quite determined to divide their farms amongst their children, and this be it understood without the landlord’s authority. They can, therefore, scarcely produce enough food for themselves from the land.

All great undertakings succeed. Horse-breeding produces extremely good results. The best horses in Ireland come from here. Every moment as we drive along the highway we see fine brood mares, which, on hearing the carriage, rush at full speed from the other end of the pastures to see us pass. We went into two or three farms to look at the colts; they were playing with the children in the yards. Mr. Thompson described a little scene to me that he had lately witnessed. He had been to see a filly that had been recommended to him, and that he wished to buy for his sister.

“Ah! it is a pretty creature, your honour,” said the farmer, leading his visitor up to the animal which was lying at the foot of a tree; “and besides, it is just the horse for a lady to hunt.”

“We shall see,” replied Mr. Thompson, continuing to advance; “is she good tempered?”

“Ah, your honour, is she good tempered! She is as quiet as a lamb! My daughter Kathleen will tell you so, they play together all day!”

Kathleen, a fine handsome girl of sixteen or seventeen, who listened to the conversation with great interest, made an affirmative gesture when thus appealed to as a witness.

“Really,” said Mr. Thompson, laughingly turning towards her; “do you ride her?”

“You shall see.”

And the young girl sprang upon the mare’s back as she rose to her feet. The frightened filly started off at a gallop. The girl standing, her hair flying in the wind, her arms stretched out to aid her balance, her body leaning forward, her little bare feet clinging to the filly’s back, allowed herself to be carried round like a circus rider. She remained there during three or four rounds, and then feeling herself about to fall, she sprang lightly to the ground and returned laughing to her father quite proud of her freak. What a pretty subject for a picture!

Amongst us, every where, except in Normandy and in a few country houses in other parts of France, the stable arrangements are deplorable. Here, on the contrary, even in the most miserable farms that we visited, they are wonderfully complete for securing the well-being of the horses. Loose boxes are very general. The use of straw as litter would be very difficult and very dear, since we may say that scarcely any wheat is grown; it is always replaced by a mossy turf, which is first thoroughly dried and is then reduced to powder by the stamping of the horses. This litter appears excellent in every respect. It forms very soft standing for the feet, and a good bed; there is no dust, and cleanliness is secured by a simple stroke of the rake. Besides, the turf once reduced to a pulverised state is so absorbent that one cannot detect the faintest smell. I noticed that the other night at Sir Croker Barrington’s, and I have been struck with it again to-day when visiting a stallion’s stable. One thing appears very singular to me; I am told that all the turf used is imported from Germany, being found superior to anything in this country for the purpose. The loss is so little that in spite of the money spent in carriage the expenses are very small. There are many places in France where turf is most abundant, but I have never yet seen any used in this way in our own country.

In the villages and on the roads we continually pass long lines of horses fastened one behind the other and led by a man who rides the leader. They are returning from the fair at Cahirmee which ended to-day; it is the most important in the south of Ireland. The farmers tell us that they saw seven or eight French dealers there. They ought to have done a good business, for the sales were bad, only weight-carrying hunters fetched a good price. A stout priest passed in his cassock, his legs encased in black leggings, mounted on a good cob, and complacently eyeing a superb filly which a ragged urchin was leading in front of him. He was pointed out to us as the victor of the day. His filly won the first prize at the show. He refused 250l. for her.

These prices are quite exceptional. However, I think that this crisis is less felt here than with us. Horses were shown to me that had been sold for 90l. or 100l. which would certainly not have fetched the same money at the last fair at Guibray; but on an average the carriage horses are not at all better than those we see in the Normandy markets. On the other hand, saddle horses are certainly superior and are yet sold very cheaply. Mr. Thompson took me to see a lady, who showed us a very handsome little mare, five years old, a wonderful jumper, beautifully groomed, which had been just brought back from the fair unsold, although only 45l. were asked for her. How small the world is! We entered the lady’s house quite accidentally, and after five minutes’ conversation we discovered that we had already met twenty years before, when she was quite a little girl and I was a middy. Our meeting had taken place at Siam.

Every one confirms what I already suspected, that horse-breeding is in its decadence here as well as in England. Formerly the English were greatly in advance of us in rearing carriage horses. Now they have nothing equal to our Anglo-Norman horse, and of this I have just received a most convincing proof. The Americans are now endeavouring to create a race of carriage horses in their country, that are to be elegant and yet a little taller and stouter than their present breeds. They come to Caen to purchase their studs. A train of thirty-five was sent over from there quite recently. If they had formed the same wish thirty or forty years ago, they would not for one instant have dreamed of seeking the horses they required from us. Why have we remained behind England for so long? In order to have good horses we must have good pastures, a good climate, and above all the assurance of a remunerative sale. Now, our pasturage is quite equal to theirs, and our climate is infinitely better; if then our breeders could not compete with theirs it is only because they did not obtain a sufficiently high price for their productions. I have a very clever friend with whom I have often talked over this subject, and who clearly explains why English horse raising is so much more flourishing than our own. He asserts that we have no reason to blush for this retrospective inferiority, and that, on the contrary, we may feel proud of it, for it proceeded from a purely moral cause. The superiority of English horse-breeding was, according to him, entirely due to the extraordinary way in which the English manage their love affairs. Every one knows that, during the whole of the last and even during the early part of the present century, English ladies were extremely frivolous. In France, when a marquise selected a lover, it never occurred to them that it was necessary to scour the high roads together in order to assure each other of their affection. On the contrary, when an Englishwoman felt that she could not offer a prolonged resistance to some gallant colonel, she did not throw herself into his arms, but into a post-chaise drawn by the four best horses money would procure in the neighbourhood. Custom exacted that, as soon as the husband had discovered to which point of the compass his guilty wife and her lover had fled, he should also procure four horses, equally good, for their pursuit; and thus as the mischievous little god, who is so sedentary with us, only appeared in English homes with the attributes of a postilion, one sees at a glance the connection between these strange customs and the production of light carriage horses. Lovers are always liberal, and if those who followed them wished for any chance of stopping their flight, they were obliged to equal them in that respect. Post-masters who had the reputation of owning excellent horses made their fortunes at once. Lovers came even from a distance to elope from their neighbourhood. Competition intervened, and they became willing to pay any price for a pair of horses which could secure a large custom. Moralists should deplore these things; horse-breeders can only regret them. If the Norfolk trotters acquired such high reputations, was it because the ladies of that county lamentably compromised their own?

All this ceased with the accession of Queen Victoria. England became virtuous. No woman dared to elope, for she knew she would not be received at Court afterwards; the postilions became stout, the old trotters became broken-winded and were not replaced; the breeders, reduced like their colleagues in France to the custom of the public coaches, soon discovered that they could not afford to make the same sacrifices as before, and their productions degenerated. Have they any chance of seeing their ancient prosperity restored? It is very improbable. With advancing years her majesty has ceased to watch over the English ladies so carefully, and it is said that their moral standard is considerably lower. If we may believe some recent law reports, they can enter into elopements with as much spirit as their grandmothers. But they no longer have recourse to a post-chaise, and this return to ancient custom can now benefit only railways and steamers. This is my learned friend’s theory. I have tried my best to explain it in the interest of science. But I leave him all the responsibility of it and all the honour.

Mr. Thompson exaggerated greatly when he spoke to me of the privations I should be obliged to submit to when sharing the life of a boycotted landlord. In default of the leg of mutton which he had been forced to leave in Miss McCarthy’s rather red hands, rabbits from the park, poultry from the yard, and vegetables from the garden, furnished materials for a dinner that an old cordon bleu, who had remained faithful to his master even in boycottage, rendered excellent. I said the other day when speaking of the manner in which Irishwomen prepare their husbands’ meals, that I believed they have little taste for cooking; I perhaps spoke rather too hastily. Their taste is not sufficiently developed, but it exists. This is another good side to the national character; I even think that if the nations were to be arranged in the order of their culinary aptitudes, the Irish would take a very honourable rank. Professors affirm that it is to them we owe that excellent combination our fathers appreciated under the name of haricot mutton, and that ignorant practitioners of our epoch call navarin. It seems that from the earliest ages this dish has been known in Ireland as Irish stew. According to the same authorities, the recipe was brought to St. Germain by King James’s cooks, who took refuge in France with their master after the disaster of the Boyne; and that by diffusing it amongst us they acknowledged our country’s hospitality. If this be true, here is a new instance of the consoling truth, that a kind action is never lost.

Perhaps, however, to be absolutely impartial we should temper this praise by some criticism. Irishmen are volatile and little observant. These faults, which injure their politics, have also a regrettable influence over their cooking. Thus the affinities, secret, yet so close, between a duck and turnips seems to have escaped their notice. During my sojourn in Ireland I was able to prove that the country produces numbers of excellent ducks, and an abundance of most succulent turnips. But the palmipede always appeared separated from the vegetable, and I never was lucky enough to find united on the same dish these two elements, although, when combined, nature has rendered them so rich in gastronomic delights.

An organisation so powerful and complicated as the Land League necessarily appears under very different aspects when one studies it in the different centres where it works. At Dublin I saw some of the men who composed the managing body, and they spoke to me about the general direction of the movement. At Kenmare I found it weakened by a combination of circumstances which contributed, if not to paralyse it, at least to prevent it from pushing things to extremities. With Lord Cloncurry and in the neighbourhood of Ballinacourty the situation was more strained already. There the League found favourable soil, its evolution was able to pass through each of its successive phases; I am now, at this moment, in a fully boycotted county. I wished to ascertain the state of feeling amongst a population subject to such a rule, and particularly that of the secondary personages who are charged with carrying out the instructions of the directing committee. Mr. Thompson gave me every facility for this work, by this evening confiding to me as I was leaving him, a thick bundle of documents relative to his boycottage—a bundle which he wished to carry to my room himself, for he was unwilling I should ascend the staircase alone. And, indeed, this staircase is an interesting monument. Four years ago it was being repaired, the workmen had taken off the balustrade on the very day the boycotting was declared. From that time it has been impossible to get it replaced!

It would be very difficult to deny that the movement is Socialistic, if not in its end, at least by the means it employs for its success. Evidently the principal leaders have deliberately made up their minds. But the others, do they know what they are doing? I do not believe so, for here is an extract from a speech pronounced at the great meeting which I alluded to above, the one that assembled when Mr. Thompson sent to the Cork Union to get his grass mown.

“What the Land League requires,” said the orator, “is to succeed in making the State dispossess the landlords in consideration of a fair indemnity, in order that afterwards the State may give the land to the tenants, making them repay the advances and the interest by means of successive annuities. Some people say that acting in this way is Socialism, but the Irish protest against such accusations. If we were Socialists, we should agree with Gambetta, that faithless man who spoke against us, when, throughout Europe, we had only friends. We should agree with the Parisian communists! those wretches who know neither justice nor virtue, who dyed their hands with the blood of an archbishop! (prolonged groans!) who were not ashamed to destroy the monument erected to celebrate their fathers’ victories! We have no more sympathy for them than they have for us! (Immense acclamations.) No! we are not Socialists because we demand the dispossession of the landlords! If this idea were Socialistic, it would not be approved of by the newspaper published under the shadow of the Vatican.”

The speaker was Father McCarthy, the parish priest of a neighbouring village; but now here are the expressions of one of his colleagues, Father Sheehy:—

“Have not all these people, the Thompsons, the X——s, retained all the best land of the country for already too long a time, my friends? And what is left for all of you?—the right to go and die of hunger in the workhouse.

“The office in which Mr. Thompson receives his slaves resembles a prison.

“He speaks to his tenants through his office-wicket, for he is a coward who has not courage to look them in the face.”

Now it is Mr. W. H. O’Sullivan’s turn. Mr. O’Sullivan is the spirit-dealer, the member of Parliament whom we met to-day.

“I am going to read you some clauses from the lease they are trying to impose upon some of the tenants in the neighbourhood. This is a very interesting document, judge for yourselves:

“First, it is stipulated that the tenant cannot plough either of his fields without the landlord’s written permission. (Groans.) It then says that each year the farmer must lay down in grass a certain portion of the land which is given him in plough. (Violent groans.) The next clause forbids the tenant to sell his straw or hay. Everything should be consumed on the farm. (Explosion of murmurs.) Then come the following items [bonds]:—The tenant must preserve all the buildings given to him in their present condition, he is forbidden to let any of the outbuildings as dwelling-houses; he must keep and give them up in good repair; lastly, the taxes are all to be paid by him.” (Prolonged murmurs, cries, and howls.)

Oh! French landowners, unlucky brethren! Who amongst you, on consulting his lease, will not find, one after the other, all these clauses? When you discuss them with your tenants, does conscience warn you that you are committing an infamous act? I am a little reassured on the point, because for the last three or four years, the Government, which is the very essence of morality, since it is Republican, sends us every summer agricultural professors, who recommend us to transform all our lands into meadows.

After the meeting, Fathers McCarthy and McSheehy probably went home with Mr. O’Sullivan, and, whilst taking a glass of something on this honourable merchant’s counter, the three orators mutually congratulated themselves on their success. They had reason to do so in some respects. As rhetorical amplifications their speeches were pretty good. Only when they assert that they have nothing in common with the Socialists, is it wise to tell two or three thousand peasants, all more or less doing badly in money matters, that their poverty is the result of Mr. Thompson and others detaining for such a long time the land that ought to be given to them?

I have only to continue reading the bundle to ascertain the effect produced. The newspaper cuttings are arranged in chronological order; unfortunately, they are not all dated. I cannot, therefore, give the dates quite precisely, but evidently very little time had elapsed between this meeting and the facts stated here.

This is what first happened at New Pallas. There is a farm about half a mile from the railway station, from which a man named Bourke had been sent away. The landlord could not find a new tenant; but since, every night, men ravaged his land, he demanded protection from the police. The authorities decided that they would erect a block-house, plated with sheet-iron, in which they could place a permanent garrison of five constables. The farm buildings were not sufficiently strong for their security.

The sheet-iron arrived at the station, but it was impossible to get it carried to the farm; no one in the country would undertake to do it. It was decided to obtain an artillery waggon from Dublin, and the accounts which reached the authorities denoted so much popular excitement that it appeared necessary to send an escort also. Half a battery of artillery started for the estate; a squadron of the 7th Hussars, one hundred and fifty men of the 9th Foot, and a detachment of constables, brought the effective total to five hundred men. They all met at the station after a convergent movement, which did great credit to the military skill of the chief of the expedition, and succeeded in transporting an iron hut, that filled one cart, five-eighths of a mile! The Government newspapers loudly congratulated themselves on the success of the operation.

During this time a permanent garrison was established at Mr. Thompson’s. It at first consisted of seventy-five men, but after some time the numbers were reduced. They were not too much bored, for they had plenty to do. Every morning, four men and one corporal, all well armed, were ordered on duty to escort the milkmaid when she went to milk the cows. The detachment which proceeded to the station for letters and parcels, was commanded by a sergeant, and flanked the whole way. It was exactly like a besieged town. Still, the Land League sentinels never left the gate, and on their side watched with the greatest vigilance. Nevertheless, once or twice the blockade was run. A reporter of the Daily News, who came expressly from England to keep the readers of his paper well informed about the operations of the siege, thus describes it:—

“December 25th, Christmas Day.—Yesterday evening, great excitement. Darkness had fallen upon us, when the dogs commenced to bark, and suddenly we saw a woman mysteriously issue from a clump of trees and approach the door, marching so softly that one might have fancied her a ghost! She carried hidden beneath her shawl an enormous Christmas cake, still hot, which a kind neighbour had sent us, but, naturally, I must not mention his name. We had obtained this windfall through his noticing, as he passed the gate, that the sentinels’ watch was not nearly so keen as usual thanks, probably, to the numerous libations they had indulged in whilst celebrating the festival. He at once took advantage of the fact to entrust this brave little woman with the commission she so skilfully executed. I hope she was not seen during her retreat, for neither she nor her husband would then be able to remain in the country.”

It was on Christmas Day, 1880, that the Daily News reporter wrote this letter. From the 13th July, 1886 the Land League has ceased placing sentinels at Mr. Thompson’s gate, but the boycotting is still strong enough to prevent Miss McCarthy from selling him a leg of mutton. There is an improvement, but the improvement progresses very slowly.

I do not only find newspaper cuttings in the bundle. It also contains a file of letters; they are all signed “Captain Moonlight.” But this is a generic name, for the letters evidently come from different people. The Irish revolutionists are not revolutionists like ours. With us every generation insists on working in its own way. In Ireland, on the contrary, they are careful to conform exactly to the old customs. The stock-in-trade of accessories of every conspiracy that respects itself still includes the mask, the dagger, and the blunderbuss which are completely out of fashion amongst us since the time of the Carbonari of the Restoration. Anonymous letters are one of their dearest traditions. Landowners are continually receiving them. They invariably enumerate the different measures which will be adopted to hasten the unfortunate recipient’s departure from this life. It is imperative that a little explanatory drawing should accompany the text, because they must guard against the possibility of the victim being illiterate. This necessity, imposed by custom, is evidently embarrassing even to the conspirators. It is a stumbling-block to those Captains “Moonlight” who have no talent for drawing. One of Mr. Thompson’s correspondents had, however, found an ingenious method of evading the difficulty. Here is a description of one of these documents. I am looking at it while I write:

At the head of the sheet of paper there is a drawing belonging to that naïve school which amongst us is especially reserved for illustrating Latin dictionaries with pierrot pendu (hanging clowns). However, we can easily distinguish that the first drawing represents a gun, with its bayonet. But below there is a combination of strokes and blots which it is absolutely impossible to make anything of. Happily the artist, obeying a sentiment of praiseworthy modesty, and understanding the deficiency of his talent, has put an explanatory note at the side of each vignette. By the side of the first there is in parentheses “gun;” at the right of the second, “bombshell.” The text at least, in default of other merit, had that of conciseness. It only consisted of two lines—

“Beware of the above, lads!

Ireland for the Irish!”

The author was probably proud of his work. However, we must own that the general effect would be better if the drawings were more intelligible. If I had the honour of being admitted into the councils of the Land League I should suggest that instead of relying upon the artistic sense of inferior agents, they should distribute amongst them papers already engraved with pictures of coffins, cross-bones, guns, gibbets, and bombshells, since they appear to be the necessary accessories of a style of literature from which the League evidently expects great results, since it encourages it so much.

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